Metamorphosis
by Florentine Quill
Summary: Cyrus matured throughout his time in Kooza. Set from Athanasius through the end of Post Athanasius.
1. Repercussions

Azar strode through the halls, resisting the urge to find her lover's so-called protégé and feed him, slowly, to the skeletons he had just granted entrance into Kooza. Instead, she was searching for Sarkan. "Trickster my ass," she growled under her breath as she quickly checked the large kitchen and other common areas that the bataclan concealed. "If he tells me that letting one fool _boy _summon a conglomerate of skeletons and Lord Death was part of his plan I'm going to wring his _neck_." Sighing, the trapeze artist entered the library and started glancing down the aisles for any glimpse of red and gold stripes. "Books, books, books, table, books-" Azar froze for a moment, her chest tightening as she saw Sarkan before hurrying towards him.

The Trickster was slumped down in a large chair, his skin pale underneath his colorful markings. The red and gold colors of his suit that normally suited him perfectly now looked garishly bright and only served to emphasize his pallor. It hurt to breathe as she felt his forehead, shuddering at the clammy temperature, removing her thin coat and placing it over him in an attempt to keep him warm. She checked him over for any other injuries, wincing at the red burns blistering his hands. Spotting no other obvious problems, Azar pondered what to do now, closing hers eyes against any useless tears. She could probably move him by herself but it wouldn't be easy. One of the Charivari would help her though…Azar moved back towards the library's door, casting one last look back at Sarkan's limp form.

Azar quickly moved back to the common rooms, keeping her eyes open for any glimpse of the colors that the Charivari wore. She walked into the kitchen and stopped, heaving a sigh of relief at seeing the other residents of Kooza gathered there and looking worried. She slipped into the room and snagged the first Charivari she thought could move Sarkan without kicking up a fuss. That last thing they needed was panic. The Charivari looked down at her, and she breathed another sigh of relief as she recognized him. His name was Ilkin and he was one of the steadier Charivari, leading the group in their practices.

"I need you to help me move Trickster," she said. "He's…" she started but stopped to clear the lump from her throat. "He's not in a good state," she finished. "I don't want everyone else panicking."

"What about the boy, Cyrus?" he asked quietly, starting to move out of the kitchen with her.

Azar bared her teeth in a silent snarl. "What about him? He called those things here; he can bloody well deal with them while we help the Trickster. Here," she added, opening the library door. She quickly led Ilkin back to where Sarkan was still slumped.

To his credit, Ilkin didn't show any distress beyond a shuddering sigh and the tightening of jaw muscles. Gently, the pair worked to move Sarkan out of the chair, shifting him to Ilkin's arms. "Where can we take him?" Ilkin asked as they moved towards the library's entrance.

"His private rooms," Azar replied absently.

"But no one knows where they-" Ilkin cut himself off, flushing. Azar was not one to flaunt her relationship with Sarkan in front of the others or boast about privileges the Trickster allowed her.

"I know where they are," she admitted quietly. She led Ilkin up to the second to last private level of the bataclan, stopping at the end of the hallway by the stairs that led to the King's balcony. "Turn away," she ordered Ilkin. She waited to make sure he couldn't see her before sketching a rune on the wall. The air appeared to ripple and part of the wall faded away to reveal a plain looking door. Azar sketched another rune- her name, or so Sarkan said- on the door before opening it. Ilkin glanced over his shoulder and followed her in, trying not to stare.

The first of the rooms was decorated in warm colors, browns and reds, with the occasional gold accenting. The furniture was surprisingly worn though comfortable looking. Azar moved through the tangle of couch and armchairs and small tables cluttered with books to open another door. Ilkin followed gingerly, knowing that he was invading the private space of a very private individual. The bedroom was decorated in the same colors but was dominated by a large bed, made out of solid oak, darkly stained and covered with an inordinate amount of pillows and blankets. "Put him on the bed," Azar said quietly, rummaging through a small dresser.

Ilkin did so gently before straightening up. "Should I leave now?" he asked, still feeling uncomfortable.

Azar nodded, moving back to the bed with bandages and salve. "Yes. Keep an eye out for the idiot child and keep him in the bataclan if you can," she ordered. Ilkin nodded and quickly left, moving back to the kitchens to wait with the others.

Azar turned back to Sarkan and looked at him for a long moment before working to wrestle off the usually immaculate suit Sarkan wore. She managed to get the jacket, tie and shirt with minimal difficulties, hissing in displeasure as she saw that the runes trailing his neck, collarbones and wrists were almost as red and inflamed as the burns on his hands. His back would probably be just as bad. She tugged his shoes off but left his pants on. "Bandages first, sleeping clothes second," she murmured to herself, cracking open a jar of cooling salve. She slathered a thick layer of the stuff everywhere that looked red before wrapping bandages over it all. Rolling him over onto his stomach once his front had been tended, Azar winced, confirming that the runes running along his spine were just as angry. She applied the more of the ointment, leaving it uncovered.

Rifling through his closet perfunctorily, Azar quickly found a pair of plain loose sleeping pants and a top. Turning back to Sarkan, she managed to prop him up with some of the thick pillows he preferred and slip the top on with a minimum of light cloth getting stuck on thick salve along his spine. She stood for a moment, staring at the last obstacle of Sarkan's slacks. She flushed, wondering why she was pausing. She had certainly helped him out of his clothes before…But that was different, with him actively aiding her and not lying limply, looking pale and vulnerable. Shaking her head firmly, the trapeze artist leaned forward to remove the thin belt.

She had just removed the belt when she heard a faint groan, followed by a somewhat wheezy chuckle. "Trying to take advantage of my weakness Azar? Tsk, tsk." Azar's breath hitched as she looked up to see Sarkan watching her, a familiar spark of sardonic amusement visible in his eyes. Normally she would've huffed and made a comment of her own, but this time she simply sat next to him and lowered her forehead to rest on his chest. She closed her eyes for a moment and just felt him breathing steadily. She could also feel his ambient power start to trickle back into the air. Sitting back up, she felt his forehead briefly and nodded at the warmer temperature. Satisfied that he would recover, she stroked his cheek gently for a moment before slapping him. Hard.

Sarkan jerked back, hissing in pain, a bandaged hand rising to hold the abused cheek. Azar glared at him, willing herself to keep from crying. "Don't you ever pull something like this ever again Sarkan Lokisson!" she snarled.

Sarkan opened his mouth to argue but shut it again, frowning as he took stock of his injuries. He winced at the steady stinging of his runes but he managed to heal his hands with a simple gesture. Closing his eyes, he sent out a flicker of power, trying to see if there were any more repercussions from Cyrus's actions. He hummed in satisfaction, feeling most of Kooza gathered in the kitchen. Cyrus's own power, surging erratically with his emotions, indicated he was outside of the bataclan, being chased.

That was well enough, but he'd still have to make an appearance, both to reassure the other inhabitants of Kooza and to send a not-so-subtle warning to Athanasius. He sat up with a grunt, ignoring Azar's snarl of displeasure. "Help me get dressed," he ordered firmly. "If I'm not visible, the others will start worrying and our visitors might start getting comfortable."

"They're already worrying. And _you're_ still hurt," Azar hissed.

"Yes, but they don't need to know that. Deception is part of my being Azar, this will help," Sarkan replied, vaguely wondering why he was bothering to argue.

Azar stared at him for a long moment before sighing and fetching his shirt, jacket and tie. Silently, she helped him dress and stepped back as a small wave of his power rolled over him, making his suit perfectly pressed once more and vanishing the bandages and salve from his hands. He stood still for a moment, inhaling deeply before opening his eyes. Azar flinched away at the sheer arrogance hiding the pain flickering in the back of his eyes.

He smirked cruelly before grabbing her and crushing his mouth to hers. After a moment, Azar kissed back, winding her arms around his neck carefully, mindful of the still-painful runes there. After another long second, they parted, Sarkan leaning down to touch his forehead to Azar's. "Once this is done, I'll make it up to you," he purred in his damnably seductive tone.

Azar nodded, fighting off a dazed feeling. "Damn straight," she growled before following him out to make sure he wouldn't hurt himself further.

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**AN: Explanations...The runes are covered later on, but they are very important. Lokisson is a second name I gave Sarkan. It gives a really obvious hint at his origins and also serves as a title. The others within Kooza will either call him Trickster or Lokisson; they feel it's disrespectful to call him by his name. Azar is the exception to this, seeing as they are in a relationship and even then, she had to get used to that. **

**Now for the big explanation that forms the backbone of my Koozaverse. Cyrus has powers. Sarkan brought him into Kooza to ostensibly learn how to control said powers. When Cyrus gets ahold of Sarkan's scepter for the second time, he used that power with a lack of intent. He wanted to be awesome and amazing and Trickster-like in general. Sarkan is all those things but he is also malicious. So, the skeletons and Lord Death [Athanasius is his name] are malevolent. Athanasius is actually the main villain for Sarkan and Cyrus. Sarkan, seeing Athanasius and his lovely minions, used his own powers to twist Athanasius and his crew into the sparkling Las Vegas act seen in the show. This drabble shows the repercussions of Sarkan's actions. **


	2. Thwarted

Athanasius turned in a slow circle, an angry breath hissing out between clenched mandibles. All around him, his skeletal minions danced about maniacally. He snarled to himself, slowly raising his gaze to the second balcony. A shadowy figure stumbled, just out of view. He watched, eyes narrowing as he watched the figure be steadied another figure. A slow smile spread across his face as he watched Sarkan stumble into view, white-faced and supported by his ever faithful trapeze artist. Perhaps all of his plans were not lost. He _did _love to see Sarkan, especially when Norse demigod was in pain…**

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AN: Look, it's an actual, technical drabble, not counting this author's note! It's also the first appearance of Athanasius, know within the show as Lord Death. He is...not nice. At all. **


	3. Well Aware

Azar watched from a nearby shadow as Sarkan happily misdirected the two hapless policemen chasing the Pickpocket, Michael. She was about to step forward as Sarkan stepped back behind the curtain hiding the orchestra when a frighteningly familiar form flickered into view. She froze as the gaudily dressed Skeleton walked around Sarkan, ruby eyes glittering as he silently inspected Sarkan before speaking.

"Remarkable, Lokisson," he commented. "No one would know that barely ten minutes earlier you were laid out on your back, weak as a kitten." His tone turned silky. "Amazing what going against your bind-" Sarkan made an abrupt gesture, hissing in pain as his runes burned once more.

"I am well aware of the repercussions of my actions Athanasius," Sarkan murmured, placing a long finger under the Skeleton's mandible and tilting his head back. "So go round up your little friends and _leave_."

Athanasius's jaw opened and shut with quiet clacks without any sound emerging. Sarkan smirked, inclining his head mockingly. Finally, Athanasius threw back his shoulders and stalked off, passing Azar with barely a glance.

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**AN: Not much for me to say. There will be four or five more drabbles set during the time before all of Athanasius's ilk clears out of Kooza. After that, there's some exposition on Sarkan, explaining the bindings and exploring some other aspects of...himself, I suppose. Cyrus gets a lot more screentime since I write from his perspective 95% of the time. **


	4. Vested Interest

"…Overbearing, egotistical _man_!" Azar swore in Sarkan's general direction as she dragged the semi-conscious Trickster towards his private room. There was a brief pause, filled with Azar's controlled breathing before Sarkan huffed.

"Most of the time…You aren't complaining about those facts," he replied dryly.

Azar threw him a dirty look while stretching out her free arm to sketch the two runes required to gain entrance to Sarkan's rooms. Sarkan wisely remained silent as Azar helped him through the main room and into his bedroom. "Do you need anything," she asked in a surprisingly gentle voice, considering that she had been cursing him less than a minute ago. Sarkan paused and then nodded.

"A fresh layer of burn salve for my runes…I irritated them further…when I took away Athanasius's voice temporarily," he admitted slowly. Azar opened her mouth to scold him but just sighed instead, gathering the needed salve and clean bandages. Sarkan was sitting slumped on his bed, dressed in light sleeping clothes, the top dangling from his fingers as he waited for Azar. She watched him for a moment, frowning as she noticed the fogged over look to his eyes. She moved a little and scowled again as it took him several moments to react to her movement, straightening his spine sluggishly.

She pretended not to notice; quickly applying the salve and wrapping his wrists, helping him slip the sleeping shirt on. He moved slowly, fumbling slightly with the sheets and large comforters of his bed before sinking into his pillows, eyes closing with a sigh. Azar winced mentally at the further indicators of his less-than-healthy state and tugged the blankets up to his shoulders from where he had left them snagged around his waist. Azar sighed again, threading her fingers through the smooth brown hair, cut short so as to fit beneath his customary hats, frowning at the cool temperature of his skin. Sarkan's lips twitched upwards, an eye cracking open halfway. "I thought I didn't put a mothering bone in that body," he murmured.

Azar paused, her fingers tightening in his hair. "You didn't," she replied, moving onto the bed and staring down at him. The other eye opened and his lips broadened in a full smirk. "I just have a very…vested…interest…in keeping you healthy." With each pause, she lowered her lips closer to his, until they were barely an inch apart. She stayed there for a moment before climbing over him and sliding under the sheets. "After all," she murmured, twining her legs around his and wrapping her arms around him possessively. "You wouldn't be able to pay me back if you were sick."

Sarkan hummed lightly in reply, but made no other response, his breathing shifting to a pattern of deep sleep. Azar smirked to herself and curled tighter around him to transfer more of her own body heat.

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**AN: Sarkan's body temperature is just a little bit warmer than the normal person's for reasons explained later on- I know I say that a lot but it really does happen and things make sense. It's just the way that these drabbles are being posted that prevents those explanations from occurring...**

Azar's personality is starting to get shown and she's...rather possessive, if you hadn't gathered. Normally this isn't a problem but it does backfire on occasion. 


	5. Ally

**AN: My apologies for the lack of updates! I was out of town for a while and got out of the habit. I will be posting more than one chapter tonight.

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Cyrus winced as he cracked another skeleton across the skull with Sarkan's scepter, lurching back in surprise at the shrill noise the creature made as it reeled back. Several of its companions surged forward and around Cyrus, mandibles clattering as they reached for the scepter in Cyrus's hands. Cyrus flinched back as he felt cold hands creep over his back. He turned to face the newest enemy and stopped, feeling a lack of weight along his shoulder and chest. "My kite!" he yelped as he watched the skeleton responsible dance back, cackling madly as it slung the slick leather strap across it's chest. Cyrus surprised himself by growling, stepping towards the skeletons. "That's _mine!_"

The skeletons all laughed at him. Cyrus felt the urge to cry well up but he forced it back down, narrowing his eyes. That was _his_ kite and they had _no right_ to be touching it…He took a step back, preparing to leap forward and take back what was his- Cyrus froze as he bumped into something. In front of him all the skeletons had stopped laughed and stood silent.

"You over step your boundaries," a deep voice rumbled from behind him. Cyrus shuddered. There was power in that voice, rough and hot, unlike anything he'd felt before. He drew in a shaking breath and smelled baked earth, ripening grain and grapes, the sharp tang of sweat. Cyrus glanced back and wanted to faint. One of the Satyrs was standing there, arms folded across his chest as he stared down at the skeletons. A few of them tried to argue, the effect of their angry chattering lessened by the fearful rattling of the rest of their bones. "Athanasius said for you to take the scepter. The boy's kite was not part of that order. _Return it._"

After a moment, the skeleton who had stolen Cyrus's kite slunk forward, removing the item in question and holding it out. Cyrus stepped forward, reaching a hand out for his kite, only to have the skeleton skitter back and forth, holding the kite just out of reach. The Satyr let out a low warning growl and Cyrus successfully snatched his kite back, glaring at the skeleton as it tumbled back into the group as they retreated for the moment.

Cyrus watched the skeletons go and turned to thank his unexpected ally. Sloe dark eyes watched him. Small horns curled out of the thick, curly hair, hiding the slightly pointed ears. "Thanks for helping get my kite back," he said shyly.

The Satyr smirked and reached down to tousle Cyrus's hair underneath his cap. "Athanasius may have recruited my brother and I for this particular gambit but we are not his creatures. Still…there's a debt to be paid now…" Cyrus gulped as he felt callused fingers slide down his cheek to grasp his chin, tilting his head back as the Satyr took a step closer.

"Debt?" Cyrus squeaked.

"Mmm…" The Satyr not-quite purred. "Don't worry little Cyrus. I don't have to collect immediately…" He chuckled and stood up straight with a sigh. "Ilkin."

"Petros." Cyrus nearly melted with relief as Ilkin- Strong; sturdy Ilkin- stepped out of the bataclan, settling his hands on Cyrus's shoulders. "I believe you and Silas have business elsewhere?" The statement was phrased as a question but Ilkin's voice was edged with steel.

"Yes," Petros agreed, inclining his head. "Silas?"

The other Satyr rounded the curve of the bataclan, sighing regretfully. "Coming." He stood next to his brother, smirking at Ilkin's narrowed eyes as he wiped his face clean of markings. "Your Charivari are passionate," was his only comment. Ilkin growled.

"Until next time then," Petros said with a bow, Silas mirroring him. As Petros straightened, he looked at Cyrus, eyes flickering with something dark. "I look forward to collecting your debt little Cyrus," he murmured.

Cyrus shivered and stepped back, towards Ilkin, breathing a sigh of relief as the Satyrs disappeared from Kooza. Ilkin chuckled at his expression but steered him towards the bataclan entrance. "Come Cyrus, you will find the bataclan well protected."

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**AN: For those of you who want a specific image of a character, Ilkin is the Charivari that the Innocent touched when he was brought into Kooza, "waking" the Charivari up for the very first number. As for Petros's behavior...I am basing the Satyrs off of their source material. This doesn't come into play for a while. As in Cyrus will no longer be jail bait.  
**

**What else...Oh. In my mind, Cyrus's kite eventually becomes to him what Sarkan's scepter is to Sarkan: A physical object imbued with their particular powers. If lost nothing really bad happens, physically but it is a bit damaging psychologically- "Haha, lookit me, I took your power"- hence why Athanasius wanted his skeletons to grab the scepter. Poor Cyrus just happened to have it at the time. **

**Lastly...This ends the Athanasius arc of Metamorphosis. The next chapter/drabble will start to deal with the aftereffects of Athanasius's little visit  
**


	6. Manipulations

Azar's eyes flickered open. She held her breath for a beat, listening for what had woken her. She heard movement in the main room and frowned, wondering who else in Kooza could possibly have access to Sarkan's rooms. Her unasked question was answered when she heard a tentative call of "Sarkan?" Azar gritted her teeth as she recognized the voice of Cyrus. Of course he would have access _here. _Still, it presented her with an opportunity she'd been longing for…

Azar suppressed the urge to chuckle darkly, choosing instead, to glance over at Sarkan. He was still asleep, though he didn't feel as cold and his breathing wasn't quite so deep. He'd be fine with a little more rest. Nodding to herself, Azar untangled herself from his long limbs and slid out of the overly large bed. She smoothed her rumpled and creased clothes as she padded over to the bedroom door. She took a deep breath before slipping out into the main room. Cyrus was there, looking ill at ease as he looked about the cluttered space. Azar waited patiently for him to notice her, standing with her arms folded and eyes smoldering.

She didn't have to wait long and felt an icy stab of amusement as Cyrus jumped upon noticing her. "Oh! Azar…Is, S-Sarkan here?" he asked, stammering slightly.

Azar growled, not bothering to hide her anger. "Yes. However," she added, stalking forward to stare down at the idiot boy. "He's not available to you. To _anyone_ at the moment." She waited a beat before continuing in a silky tone of voice. "You see, your little stunt had _consequences. _Ones Sarkan suffered to make sure that you and the rest of Kooza was safe."

Cyrus looked up at her, paling at her clipped speech. "He-He l-looked alright w-when the pickpocket c-came out," he whispered.

Azar _snarled _at Cyrus, dragging him by the strap of his kite to peer into Sarkan's bedroom. "Does _that _look "alright" to you?" she hissed in an accusing voice, stabbing a finger towards Sarkan's motionless form. "Look at what you did to him with your idiocy!"

Cyrus shrank back from the sight of the Trickster's vulnerable looking face, still pale. A line of his runes was visible from the collar of his shirt, still red and inflamed. "N-No," he whispered.

Azar yanked him away from the bedroom door, hard enough to make him stumble backwards. "Of course not. Actions have repercussions, little boy! It should have been you laid out flat, not Sarkan!" She growled and shoved him again, harder this time. Between the boy's innate clumsiness and her strength, this time she managed to make him fall, something snapping in the kite. Cyrus let out a small cry, flinching as if something within _him _had broken. He stared up at her with wide eyes, terror making him shake.

"I-I d-d-didn't m-mean t-t-to h-hurt h-him!" Cyrus managed to say, fear making his stutter more pronounced. He scrambled to his feet gingerly, one side of his kite crumpled; one of the thin wooden ribs broken from his fall.

"Shut up! He's _hurt _and it's _your fault _and now those _things_ are running around Kooza unchecked-" Azar advanced on Cyrus. He back peddled, staring down at the floor and shaking his head frantically, trying to deny her accusations. She snarled, feeling angrier as he did so. "Would you _show some spine?_" She reached forward and grabbed the front of his strange pajama suit, pulling him close._ "_I swear, I have no idea what made Sarkan pluck you out of your pathetic life and bring you here! What could you _possibly _have to offer him?" She was shaking him now, violently, ignoring his feeble attempts to speak when something knocked her down, away from Cyrus. She felt something scrape against her chest and she choked off a gasp as sharp pain lanced through her chest and radiated outwards.

She looked around for whatever had hurt her and froze as she met Sarkan's gaze. His white eyes, which she often thought of as cool in tone, were narrowed and burned with an anger that was palpable. Azar shrank back, averting her gaze to stare at the floor.

"_You overstep your boundaries_." The Trickster's voice was opposite of his eyes, each word sharp and edged with ice. Azar shuddered, sparking off another wave of pain that made her want to curl into a small ball. She heard the rustle of light cloth and Azar felt familiar fingers- still unnaturally cool and clammy- grasp her chin and force her to look up. "You overstep your boundaries," he repeated in a softer voice. "My reasons for bring Cyrus to Kooza are my own and I do not owe _anyone _but Cyrus an explanation."

Azar opened her mouth to protest and flushed when all that emerged was a whimper of pain. Sarkan brushed deceptively gentle fingers along her sternum and she almost sobbed in relief as the pain vanished. "He _does not have_ the explanations you seek Azar." Sarkan's voice was still soft but laced with steel. "Do not go after him again Azar. _Ever_."

Azar said nothing, her face burning with shame as she gave a jerky nod. "Go tend to the others," he ordered. "Tell them that our…guests are leaving in short order."

Azar nodded again as she slowly picked herself off the floor, wincing at the dull ache in her chest. She slunk out of the room, catching a bare glimpse of Sarkan turning back to the boy. In the hallway outside she paused to lean against a wall, tilting her head back and sighed, pondering Sarkan's actions. She rubbed at her chest as she mused.

She had thought that the boy had been brought in by a whim, Sarkan being in a mercurial mood. Clearly this was not the case…Azar frowned but pushed off from the wall, spine straightening as she walked towards the kitchen. She did not care for puzzles and this was not one easily solved.

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**AN: Proof that while Sarkan is capable of being- Well, not _nice _per se, but less of a enigmatic bastard- he still is a Trickster. Azar does enjoy some privileges from her more intimate relationship but that doesn't mean she can get away with murder. There is a drabble where Sarkan gives his reasons for taking in Cyrus and why he allows the boy to be so close to him but that won't be posted for a while. [hangs head] I feel like such a bad person for not posting all those lovely explanations but this series of drabbles sets up the characters and a lot of the changed backstory for my Koozaverse. **

**EDIT: Well. In the course of working on the drabbles that make up Foundation, my friend and beta pointed out that Azar and Sarkan's relationship doesn't come across as very healthy, especially in this particle piece. "…****the scene seems to serve the purpose of informing the readers that underneath it all, Sarkan has power and control and he's not unwilling to use it against Azar to make sure she Knows Her Place." **

**This came as a shock to me but I could certainly see my friend's point. Like any good writer, I went back and edited it so that it showed my original intentions more clearly: I wanted to show Sarkan's Papa Wolf tendencies in regards to Cyrus. I desperately want Azar and Sarkan to have a healthy relationship and have it come across as such. Due to this edit of Manipulation, there's definitely going to be a second SarkanAzar series of drabbles, dealing with the repercussions of what happened here. **


	7. Apologies and Orders

Sarkan watched Azar leave before turning his attention to Cyrus, who stood, shivering violently. His face was drawn and pale, eyes fixed on the spot where Azar had collapsed. His gaze snapped to Sarkan, wide and glassy with fear. Sarkan moved as if to place a hand on Cyrus's shoulder but stopped when Cyrus jerked back. "Did she harm you?" Sarkan asked in a low voice.

Cyrus stared to shake his head but stopped when Sarkan gave him a flat look. "J-J-Just s-some b-bruises," he confessed.

Sarkan gave a slow nod, folding his arms across his chest with a slight wince, his eyes unfocusing for a moment. "Athanasius has left, though his minions are still running about," he said, voice distant.

"The S-Satyrs are gone too," Cyrus muttered, flushing as he remembered Petros. He looked up and was relieved to see Sarkan's eyes clear and focused as the Trickster looked at him. "I…I-I d-didn't m-mean to b-bring in Ath-thanasius a-and get you h-hurt…I-I'm sorry!" Cyrus blurted out in as much of a rush as his stutter allowed.

Sarkan raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "You didn't summon anything, Cyrus. Athanasius merely took advantage of the…opening your lack of intent created," he explained. "As for my injuries…" White eyes narrowed in anger. "Azar was wrong. They are _not your fault. _Kooza is _mine _and I would've done the same if you had not been here."

Cyrus let out a shaky sigh, some of his trembling abating. Sarkan stepped forward, placing a hand on Cyrus's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze when Cyrus flinched. "You've seen what the consequences of unfocused power can do." Cyrus shuddered. "I do not bring outsiders into Kooza idly Cyrus. If you do not control your own powers, they will control _you. _" He titled Cyrus's head back with a finger. "And that would wreak havoc on both our worlds."

Cyrus shivered, squeezing his eyes shut. "What can I do?" he asked in a low voice, quiet determination smoothing away his stutter.

Sarkan's gentle finger keeping Cyrus's head up moved, grasping his chin firmly. "Learn quickly. I will not have Kooza threatened by a fool who has no grasp on his own powers."

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**AN: No, Cyrus did not magically disappear during the last drabble. He was just very, very quiet. Understandable as he was shaken, mentally as well as physically. **

**I don't write it into my drabbles explicitly as such, but Sarkan does give off the air of something _very _dangerous on occasion. I kind of picture him as a panther. Cyrus, for all that I love him, is not anything like that. He's shy and timid and absolutely _terrified _of Sarkan. He gets better as time goes on but the fact remains that Sarkan is a Trickster. Cyrus's instincts are to freeze and not do anything to draw attention to himself and that came into play here.**

**And yes, for future reference, people like to tilt Cyrus's head back a lot.**

**Edit: Rewrote this to coincide with the new version of Manipulation.  
**


	8. Shaman

Sarkan wandered the halls of the bataclan, silently checking over Kooza. The Charivari were all in their large communal dorms, Azar was curled up in her loft, the pickpocket was holed up with Heimloss…Sarkan frowned as he checked the bedroom Cyrus had gingerly taken use of, near the contortionists. The bed was empty; sheets twisted and tangled with the large comforter. More importantly; there were slashes over the walls, with one piece of furniture completely reduced to chunks of kindling. Sarkan brushed his hand over the wall, feeling the clean cuts gouged through wood and wall hangings. He hummed to himself thoughtfully before cocking his head. Cyrus's power was still flickering in spurts above him. Sarkan sighed to himself, wondering what drew the boy to the King's balcony so often as he walked up.

He stopped at the top of the small stairwell, observing the small figure curled up at the balcony's edge. Cyrus was huddling in an thick blanket, pale and shaking. Sarkan cleared his throat, flaring his own power in an unspoken greeting, forgoing the opportunity to scare Cyrus in his usual manner. Cyrus's only response was to curl into a tighter ball. Sarkan's eyes narrowed as he spotted the remnants of a nightmare, twining about Cyrus's head and hunched shoulders in an oily slick of blacks and purples. Sarkan drifted forward, curling his fingers in the nightmare and invoking one of the rarer aspects of himself as both demigod and Trickster. He let his eyes close, a satisfied hum rumbling deep in his chest. The nightmare flashed through his mind, frightening scenes of Athanasius and himself and Azar, all jumbled together in broken strings and joints to form Cyrus's deepest fears.

"Athanasius is certainly worthy of your fear," he murmured gently. Cyrus jerked, craning his head back to stare up at Sarkan with wide and glassy eyes. Sarkan sat fluidly beside the boy, feeling him shake. After a long moment, Cyrus sagged, leaning on Sarkan. Sarkan let him, raising a hand to trail soothing fingers along Cyrus's spine, brushing over knotted muscles, trying to loosen them. Without a word, Sarkan summoned two heavy pewter goblets of mulled cider, steam wafting. He passed one to Cyrus who eagerly clasped the warm metal, curling around the thick goblet. "The damage, while impressive, is easily fixed," he spoke quietly. "It will be good practice for you I think." His tone was contemplative, an attempt to try and draw Cyrus out of his shell. Cyrus only flushed, finally taking a sip of the cider.

"D-d-do you h-have dr-dreams?" Cyrus asked.

Sarkan stretched lazily before speaking. "Mmm, yes, I do," he purred. "And such dreams they are…" he whispered, smiling to himself. Kooza had started as such a dream.

"B-but th-they d-don't scare you." Cyrus muttered, his expression sour.

Sarkan stilled. "…No," he admitted. "But I am partially made of dreams and they speak through me." He smiled wryly. "How did you think I found you?" Cyrus ducked his head, staring down at his goblet. "We are drifting off topic. I am not you and you are not me." Sarkan reached out a hand, tipping up Cyrus's chin. "And that is _no bad thing_." Cyrus shivered. "Drink Cyrus. Talk if you wish to…or not," Sarkan admonished in a gentle tone. He sat back and sipped at his own drink, savoring the rich taste and waiting.

After a few minutes of silence, Cyrus drank more of the cider and began to speak, his stutter smoothed into a slight slur by the alcohol. Sarkan said nothing, simply listening.

**

* * *

AN: Tsk, tsk, Sarkan. Giving a minor alcohol? Cyrus, being the slightly clueless boy that he is, doesn't notice and doesn't ask. Otherwise he would put up a huge fuss since he's so rule-abiding. Sarkan, realizing this, doesn't mention it. Quick explanation for what Sarkan found: Cyrus had a nightmare about Athanasius. He hasn't learned how control his powers yet but he knows about them, so he subconsciously used them to try and fight off the nightmare. He woke up, saw the damage and went up to the balcony to think/worry/not be dreaming. **

**This drabble was mostly inspired by part of a definition read to me by a friend by a dream interpretation book. "...Not of this world, the Trickster is also the shaman, the one who can enter the realm of magic and interpret our dreams." I latched onto that tidbit with greedy little hands and incorporated it into Sarkan's character. He can see nightmares and dreams and look into them, but he can't interact with them. Obviously this doesn't come into play very often, but it helps bring him closer to Cyrus in a friendly fashion. He would also do this for any of the others in Kooza if they ever have the same issue. **


	9. Descendent

Cyrus watched the Trickster move soundlessly about his expansive library, idly paging through a book. Any conventional sense of time had quickly fled after Cyrus had been enfolded into the Trickster's wondrous world but it felt like he had been here for some time. Occasionally he felt pangs of longing for the familiar things of the normal world- weather, different landscapes, ice cream- but most of the time he was too enraptured with Kooza itself, with its inhabitants; the Trickster, most of all.

"Obviously there is something on your mind Cyrus."

Cyrus managed to stifle a gasp as Sarkan folded himself neatly into a nearby chair, studying Cyrus with a small hint of amusement. Cyrus smiled ruefully, knowing that Sarkan was well aware of his tendency to startle the young boy whenever he spoke or moved near him suddenly. "I…It's just that- I mean-" Cyrus tried to start, feeling flustered as words tangled stubbornly on his tongue.

"Breathe. Take your time. Neither you or I are in any particular hurry," Sarkan murmured, gold stained fingers stroking the air in a calming gesture. Cyrus nodded hurriedly, taking several deep breaths.

"I was just curious….Sarkan? Where…Where did you come from?" Cyrus asked, desperately praying that he wouldn't offend his mercurial mentor.

Sarkan stilled for a moment, fixing his eyes on Cyrus who froze, struggling to maintain eye contact under the Trickster's intense scrutiny. After a time, Sarkan's eyes softened into their usual sardonic amusement. "Well, you see, young _Innocent_, when a man and a woman love each other very, very much, or they've imbibed too much alcohol, they often-"

Cyprus cut off the droll drawl with a yelp, waving his hands frantically in front of him. "Not like that! Well, it's not as if you just started _existing _but you have so much sheer _power_…" He trailed off when Sarkan smirked.

"I know what you meant. Still," he paused to sigh dramatically. "When you leave yourself so beautifully open like that, it _begs_ to be taken advantage of. Pick your words carefully, for they give form to your intent." Sarkan's eyes bored into Cyrus, who shivered, still remembering what had happened when he had tried to use Sarkan's scepter with only the vaguest hint of intent. Sarkan nodded approvingly before humming contemplatively. Cyrus waited, ignoring his own impatience. Finally Sarkan spoke again. "I have another name, though it is used as a title now. It also serves as a reminder to other beings such as myself as to who I am. You might have heard some of the Charivari use it."

Cyrus frowned, thinking. "Ah…Lokisson?"

"Yes." Sarkan leaned his head back, stretching luxuriously. "Sarkan Lokisson. Tell me; is your world still aware of the older pagan religions?"

"Ye-es…" Cyrus said slowly.

"What do you know of the Norse pantheon?" Sarkan asked, watching Cyrus.

"Ah…Not much," Cyrus admitted before pausing, frowning down at his hands. "Wait a minute. Loki. Lokisson. _Loki's son!_" He finished excitedly, looking up, only to stop at the sight of the empty chair.

"_Very_ good," Trickster purred from behind Cyrus, who jumped as he felt long, gentle fingers stroke his cheek. Satisfied with his latest success of scaring Cyrus, Sarkan resumed his previous seat. "It would be more accurate to be called Loki's grandson, but that doesn't flow as well." He shrugged an eloquent shoulder. "Still, the Norse gods were particularly…promiscuous. But eventually the Christians came to power and the Norse pantheon faded away, leaving only their descendents. Demigods if you will." He gave a mocking bow.

Cyrus nodded slowly, absorbing the startling information. "How come you didn't fade away? Or lose your powers?"

Sarkan's expression grew rigid and Cyrus knew he had crossed a line. "That…is a tale for a later time Cyrus. Tend to your studies for now." Cyrus had barely nodded when he felt the Trickster grasp his power and leave, abruptly flickering out of sight.

* * *

**AN: Look! An actual, real live, explanation! And proof that Cyrus is intelligent. Though technically, Sarkan is a full god- his father was Narfi, son of Loki and his mother was the valkyrie, Gondul. Due to his actions after the fading of the Norse pantheon, Sarkan doesn't consider himself a full god. Part of it is directly related to his actions and part of it is he doesn't consider himself worthy enough to call himself such. **

**As noted in the first paragraph, Kooza is timeless. Sarkan deliberately made it so. This affects Cyrus a little bit and allows me to fiddle with the Koozaverse timeline. There is also one huge repercussion from it. Well, two. Explanation: Cyrus's parents died in a car crash when he was 6 and his grandfather gained custody of him. Cyrus is really, really, _really_ attached to his grandfather. But right now? It's like his grandfather is non-existent. That's due to Sarkan's interference, since he knew that Cyrus would never be able to focus on his studies if he was worried about his grandfather. ****Once Cyrus leaves Kooza, he remembers about his grandfather and draws his own conclusions after a few years. He's understandably angry at Sarkan but it fades away.**

**This goes to show that Sarkan is again, not a nice entity and is perfectly willing to screw with Cyrus's mind without Cyrus knowing about it. It's also to allow the second repercussion to manifest. During Cyrus's time within Kooza he comes to view Sarkan in the same category as his grandfather. Maybe even more so since Sarkan gave him control and showed him such amazing things. I have an faint idea of how big an impact this has on Cyrus but I haven't explored it fully since I have yet to write a drabble where Cyrus interacts with his grandfather either pre- or post-Kooza.  
**


	10. Interruption

Sarkan brushed his hands over Azar's hips, enjoying the play of sharp bone under soft cloth and softer flesh as he brushed multiple kisses along her temple and down her jaw. He maneuvered her back towards a wall, fingers trailing upwards to trace lightly meaningless designs on the skintight cloth covering her back. Azar hummed in pleasure, her own hands running over his suit jacket and tugging it off. Sarkan let her, turning his attention to her neck, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin there. Azar dug her fingernails into his hips briefly, making him hiss in slight discomfort for a moment. He opened his eyes to gaze down at her, to see her smirking up at him. Swiftly, he stooped down and caught her mouth while he trapped both her hands to the wall, leaning forward against her to press a leg between her own legs.

She let him, groaning and leaning her head back as nerves fired countless pleasurable sensations up her spine. Sarkan smirked again, leaning forward to place a soft kiss over her pulse, sliding his hands down her forearms before trailing down her torso. Azar sucked in a breath as he traced a rune over one hip, idly making use of his powers. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling over the buttons at first, but soon his shirt went the way of his jacket. Sarkan slipped his hands under her clothes, relishing the feel of skin on skin. He buried his nose in her neck, enjoying the feel of her hands stroking his skin, hissing in pleasure as she brushed over the sensitive runes along his spine and collarbones and…!

Sarkan growled; opening his eyes again, wondering what had made Azar stop moving. She was staring at something over his shoulder reproachfully. Risking a glance backwards, Sarkan felt his lip curl up in a snarl as he spotted Cyrus, frozen stiff and his face pale.

Cyrus shuddered from the look he glimpsed on Sarkan's face as the Trickster caught sight of him. In between one moment and the next, Cyrus found himself in a familiar park meadow with a _very _displeased Trickster standing less than a foot away from him, immaculately dressed. Cyrus shivered again, shrinking back from the fury sparking in Sarkan's eyes. Abruptly, the immortal moved, stepping forward and snapping out a hand to grab the collar of his shirt roughly, holding him in place even as he attempted to move back.

"You tread on dangerous ground Cyrus," Sarkan whispered, white eyes staring down into Cyrus's. "It would be a good idea for you to not interrupt me again."

This time, Cyrus felt Sarkan gather his power, flinching back as he watched Sarkan's fingers twist in a sleek gesture. As abruptly as they had left, the pair returned to Kooza, appearing on the King's balcony. With one last icy look, Sarkan adjusted his tie, loosening it, as he strode away from Cyrus and back down to the lower levels of the bataclan. Cyrus stood, unmoving before scuttling back to the library, intent on avoiding _anything_ in vertical stripes for as long a time as he could manage.

* * *

**AN: Annnnd, there's your first look at how physical Sarkan and Azar can be. Interesting fact about Sarkan: He doesn't kiss Azar on the mouth very often outside of the bedroom. He considers it to be more intimate than just kissing her neck or jaw or any other area of the head/neck/collarbone area. So when poor Cyrus wanders by, looking for Sarkan because he has a question...Very unhappy Sarkan. **


	11. Instinctive

"Just one moment Cyrus," Sarkan murmured before opening his eyes. Cyrus stood in front of him, staring at the dramatically altered main room of Sarkan's private section of the bataclan. Sarkan hummed, feeling a deep seated thrum of pleasure as he looked at the changes.

Instead of the warm colored wood flooring and comfortable looking furniture, the floor was paved in age worn flagstones. A large fire pit took up the center of the space, set into the floor. Scattered around the floor were luxurious fur rugs and large cushions. At the edge of the fire's circle of light were the blocky shadows of a large wooden chair, a small table and a medium sized cask of an unidentified beverage. Sarkan was slouched in the chair, idly observing Cyrus, his eyes half lidded. A memory flickered in the Trickster's mind, of an almost identical scene, from long ago… "S-Sarkan?"

Cyrus's hesitant stammer broke the spell and Sarkan sighed to himself, standing in one fluid motion and moving to stand before the fire. "Come here and make yourself comfortable Cyrus, we may be here for a time," he instructed in a soft voice. Cyrus skirted around the flames, gingerly settling himself on a thick fur, burying his hands in the soft strands. Sarkan settled himself on a nearby cushion, long legs neatly folding. He inhaled, smiling at the scent of scorched air, stone and burning wood, gathering his thoughts. "A lot of the different mythos and ancient gods were true, at some point or another," he began thoughtfully. "However, as Christianity came into power, we started losing power. Strangely enough, Christianity is noted amongst the other pantheons for its lack of power…But I digress. Despite claims from mortals and the mundane tales of your world, the only ones with actual _power…_" Sarkan sketched a shape in the air, cupping his hands as a small tornado of flame whirled into existence, flames flickering in a multitude of colors. "The ones with actual power," he repeated, "are descendants of the ancient pantheons."

Cyrus stared, entranced at the sight of the spinning flames that licked over Sarkan's hands without burning him. "From what I've seen," Sarkan continued, quenching the flames with a casual gesture and recapturing Cyrus's attention. "Your own gift is very similar to my own." Sarkan's voice dropped to something approaching a growl, deep and primal. "_Creation_, wild and elemental. Power in its rawest form."

Cyrus nodded dazedly. "E-Elemental?" he asked, shifting his gaze to the more natural fire burning beside him.

Sarkan hummed, pleased. "Yes. Though I would venture that you will work with the blæst. The wind," he amended seeing Cyrus's confusion. "But before that, you need to grasp your power and learn to use it." Reaching into a pocket, Sarkan grasped a fistful of herbs and cast it onto the flames. They crackled, burning in a fit of green and blue sparks, sending up a cloud of smoke. Cyrus coughed as Sarkan wafted the smoke over to him. "Breathe Cyrus. The smoke will help you overcome inhibitions." Cyrus looked panicked as Sarkan smirked. "Well, some of them." Sarkan's voice grew soft and coaxing. "I want you to relax and breathe deeply…" Cyrus gave Sarkan a nervous look before closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. "Good," Sarkan murmured. "Keep doing so until you feel your powers."

"How will I know?" Cyrus mumbled in between deep breaths.

"Oh, you'll know," Sarkan replied wryly. He watched Cyrus for a moment longer to make sure that he was still breathing deeply before sinking back onto his cushion, eyes sliding shut as he basked in the heat of the fire.

Sarkan's eyes flickered open as Cyrus gasped suddenly. Looking over at the boy, he smirked. Cyrus was trembling; eyes shut and mouth opened slightly. Sarkan chuckled under his breath before speaking. "Never forget this feeling Cyrus. It's what you'll reach for when using your gift."

Cyrus gave a jerky nod, several facial muscles twitching, eyes still closed. "It's s-so…untamed," he whispered. "H-how do I control it?" he asked in a helpless voice.

Sarkan hummed contemplatively. "It varies from person to person. What does your power _feel _like?"

Cyrus shook his head, frowning slightly. "It's…." he clenched his eyes shut tighter, concentrating. "Slippery. Wild, like my kite in a storm…" he trailed off.

"Definitely a wind user," Sarkan commented dryly. "How would you harness a storm? Tame the wind and make it _yours._" Cyrus gave another jerky little nod, his fingers curling over empty air. Sarkan smiled, standing up and padding over to the door leading to the rest of the bataclan and Kooza.

Cyrus heard him. "S-Sarkan? Where are you going?"

"Hmm?" Sarkan deliberately sounded nonchalant. "I have some things to take care of. I'll be back later and interested in seeing what you've learned."

Cyrus gave a small whimper, hearing Sarkan leave before turning his attention inward, gingerly prodding at the wild strands of power he could feel inside himself.

* * *

**AN: One of Cyrus's first lessons about his powers. Obviously Sarkan prefers the sink or swim method of teaching xD He doesn't go far from Cyrus and does keep a close eye on him, just in case anything _does _go wrong but unless Cyrus specifically focuses on how something could go wrong in one specific way- and he's too busy going "Ohgodohgodohgod" and figuring out what to do- nothing will. **

**There won't be a lot of drabbles like this since I want to focus on the character interactions and growth and Cyrus's other lessons are almost exactly like this, albeit with Sarkan giving him some actual directions and explaining things. Cyrus does a lot of book study as well in the library. Yeah, there's a lot of different things hidden away in the bataclan, at least in my Koozaverse xD**

**I also just realized there's a hint in here as to why Sarkan acts differently around Cyrus. After Metamorphosis is complete, I'll post another story (read: series of drabbles) about what happens before Athanasius pops up. In _that _story will be the blatant explanation.  
**


	12. Runes

**AN: This is the big explanation drabble...This is really the core of what I changed to create my Koozaverse and explains a lot about Athanasius's and Sarkan's interactions/motives.**

**A bit of set up for this: Ilkin and Cyrus were baking in the large kitchen a ridiculously large amount of cookies (why is covered in another drabble). Cyrus was handling a large bowl of lard and slipped on a bit of spilled canola oil. Cue Cyrus going one way and the bowl going another...Unfortunately Sarkan was in the bowl's way and received an impromptu lard bath. **

**

* * *

**Cyrus trudged after Sarkan, following the Trickster to his rooms. He watched Sarkan sketch the runes allowing the pair entrance to Sarkan's personal area of the bataclan and followed the older man inside. He perched gingerly on the couch, wincing as he noticed the small trail of lard spatters that dotted the floor after Sarkan's footsteps. He waited, fidgeting uneasily. He'd never _meant_ to drop that bowl... After a few minutes, he heard Sarkan walk back out. He glanced at Sarkan hesitantly, expecting some anger or disgust…Not amusement. Still, Sarkan was smiling to himself as he regarded his lard-stained shirt, jacket and hat. "You're…not angry?" Cyrus asked.

Sarkan glanced at him and shrugged, letting his clothes dangle from his hand at his side. "While lard is hard to get out of clothing, I think I can manage," he replied dryly. He did grimace though, as he wiped at some of the fatty grease smeared on his neck, trying to clean it off of the runes tracing around his throat and collarbones. Cyrus jumped, eyes widening as the runes slowly morphed from the elegantly looking swirls and dashes to a simple angular form before changing again to plain English: –_shall not cause lethal or permanent damage in his- shall not interfere with the affairs of other- will not- _Cyrus shut his eyes quickly when Sarkan hissed in displeasure as he caught sight of the change to the markings.

"I-I- I wonder- I mean-" Cyrus took a shuddering breath, trying to keep his words from getting mixed up. "Wh-Where did those runes come from? What do they m-mean?"

Sarkan looked at him for a long moment be he inhaled slowly, eyes closing as he brushed his fingers over wrists, collarbones, and neck. Cyrus watched, fascinated, as the strange sentences seemed to ripple before sliding back into the original script he'd seen. Sarkan wandered past Cyrus to sprawl, loose-limbed, in one of the armchairs. He tilted his head back with a soft groan. He remained like that for a while before finally speaking. "That, Cyrus…is a rather unpleasant tale." One eye slid open, regarding Cyrus soberly. "Still," he sighed. "It is one that must be told."

Cyrus stilled, feeling that this was suddenly a much larger issue than a fat splattered Trickster. Sarkan's lips twitched at Cyrus's expression before the Trickster leaned forward, head bowed.

"A lot of a god's power comes from his followers," Sarkan started, speaking in almost a monotone. "This also extends to a god's descendents. Most of the time this is not a problem. However, as you are probably well aware, a certain monotheistic religion started spreading its influence." Cyrus nodded hesitantly, despite Sarkan's lowered head. "Well. Time flowed differently back then…Things changed quickly and before I or any of the other demigods realized, the Norse pantheon was gone and our own powers were starting to dwindle."

Sarkan raised his head and Cyrus flinched back at the raw emotion flaring in the demigod's eyes. "Kooza is very dear to me," Sarkan whispered, his voice hoarse. He shut his eyes, raking a hand through his hair. "There are certain entities in any world that will always have unprecedented levels of power. Athanasius is one of those." Cyrus shivered as his insides froze, remembering the Reaper. Sarkan smiled mirthlessly. "Mortals will _always_ fear Death. And thus, he will always have great power."

"What...What did you do?" Cyrus asked, dreading the answer.

"I made a deal," Sarkan answered softly. He straightened for the first time since he had begun speaking, spreading his arms wide. "Look upon these markings carefully Cyrus," he continued in that same soft voice. "Power comes with responsibility. Especially for those of us, who literally, hold the fate of a world in our hands." Cyrus nodded slowly, still feeling cold inside. He watched as Sarkan stood. "I am going to get clean. I suggest you return to helping Ilkin," Sarkan smiled slightly. "Otherwise, there won't be any cookies left for either of us to enjoy."

"I-I'll go then," Cyrus muttered, standing. Sarkan nodded and turned, walking back to his bedroom. Cyrus flinched back as he saw that the binding along Sarkan's spine was still in English, where the demigod had been unable to hide it in its foreign writing.

_Sarkan Lokisson is henceforth barred from interfering with any affairs under the purview of Atha- _

The rest of the binding was hidden by Sarkan's high waist slacks. Cyrus rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm himself as he slowly made his way back to the kitchen after making sure that he hid the entrance to Sarkan's quarters with another rune that Sarkan had taught him, thinking of all he had seen and been told.

* * *

**AN: So...There it is. ****The reason I chose to do this is because in all the old stories/epic tales I've read or heard, a person can't have great power without either limitations or responsibility. The Trickster...is incredibly powerful and apparently not limited by that (curse Cirque and its ambiguity!). So I introduced limitations to him, in the form of the trope Gods Need Prayers and from those consequences, the bindings. In another drabble you'll see how Sarkan first dealt with his limits. They actually were crucial part in his backstory, for him maturing into the person that Cyrus deals with.  
**

**I will list all of Sarkan's bindings on my profile in the Kooza section for those interested.****  
**


	13. Limitations

**AN: Some time has passed between this drabbles and Runes.**

* * *

"SARKAN!"

Both Sarkan and Cyrus jumped as someone _slammed _the door of the library open, feet pounding on the wooden floors. Within seconds a frantic looking Cita appeared, wild-eyed and gasping for breath as she half collapsed against the large table Sarkan and Cyrus had been using. "Come quick!" she panted. "Accident…outside…Azar's hurt bad!" Sarkan's eyes widened and between one moment and the next the trio found themselves in front of the bataclan. A small part of Cyrus's mind not crazed with worry noted that Sarkan had actually brought the entire table and their chairs with them from the library. Sarkan's chair tipped over with a clatter as Sarkan threw himself towards the motionless form at the edge of the clearing, surrounded by the Charivari and other inhabitants of Kooza.

Everyone parted before Sarkan as he crashed by Azar, inhaling sharply as he saw the blood patterning her skin and the unnatural bend of several limbs. His breathing was harsh and jagged as he instinctively grasped at his power, aiming to _fix her_. He held the hot flickering threads for a brief moment, savoring the feel before the runes along his spine seared, viciously reminding him of his binding. Sarkan hissed, back arching, eyes snapping shut in pain.

Cyrus followed at a slower pace, shock making him stumble. He looked up, wondering what had made Azar fall. Her trapeze still swung ominously, the bar dangling from one strap. The other strap looked to have violently snapped, leather shredded and threads frayed. A glitter of purple, black and white caught his eye, making him gasp as he saw Athanasius prowl closer, watching the scene in utter silence. A sense of urgency and horror filled him as Sarkan bent forward, hissing in pain. _His binding-! _He remembered, glancing at Athanasius. The Skeleton's ruby eyes glittered maliciously, his permanent grin growing sinister as he sidled ever closer to Azar.

Cyrus's chin jerked up defensively and he squirmed forward through the crowd surrounding Azar, kneeling down cautiously next to the still bent over Sarkan. He placed a tentative hand on Sarkan's shoulder. Sarkan shuddered, snapping his head up. "Don't…do that," he ground out from between clenched teeth.

A low, mocking, laugh echoed across the space as Athanasius strolled forward, weaving through the crowd to stand a few feet away. Sarkan let out a deep growl, eyes burning as he straightened up with some difficulty. "Athanasius," he rasped out. "You have _no business here._"

Athanasius chuckled, stalking even closer. "To the contrary Lokisson, I believe I do. Has your precious falcon fallen?" He inhaled deeply, head tilting back in appreciation. "No...Not yet. But she's close. Shattered bones, internal bleeding, and a punctured lung. That's…_impressive._" Sarkan snarled again, leaning over Azar protectively, ignoring the increased burning from his back.

Cyrus shuddered before clearing his throat. "S-Sarkan?" he whispered. "W-What about Azar?" He flinched back at Sarkan's venomous glare as the older man stood slowly, stepping in front of Athanasius. Cyrus's eyes widened as he watched Sarkan defy Athanasius's binding to protect what was his with barely a flicker of an eye. "I am not the only one with power Athanasius," Sarkan said in clipped tones, glancing back at Cyrus pointedly.

Cyrus wanted to squeak and shrink back from Athanasius's intense stare when it flickered over to focus on him. Instead he straightened his spine and tilted his head up in what he hoped was a defiant manner. After a moment Athanasius turned his attention back to Sarkan, eyes gleaming malevolently as he took in Sarkan's tightly locked muscles and the sweat starting to trickle down the Trickster's face. "Very well then…Let your _boy _try and piece the falcon back together." Athanasius's voice was a contemptuous drawl. "I'll be waiting for when he fails." Athanasius drew back to the edge of the clearing.

Sarkan said nothing but wordlessly, the rest of Kooza closed ranks, hiding the trio in a protective cluster. Ilkin quickly grabbed at Sarkan's shoulders, supporting the Trickster as the demigod's legs tried to buckle. "Move quickly Cyrus, there is more than Azar's life at stake," Sarkan ordered, clutching at Ilkin to stay upright. Athanasius's dark laugh could be heard from nearby.

Swallowing nervously and nodding, Cyrus turned back to Azar, trying to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes, feeling out the slippery whispers of silk that formed his power. After a moment, he sucked in a breath, hands instinctively forming a cupped cage as he caught a hold of what he was looking for. Frowning fiercely, Cyrus reached with painstaking slowness, focusing every fiber of his gift into his intent: _Make Azar better. Keep her well. Heal her and make Athanasius go_ away_._ Cyrus was dimly aware of his hands brushing over Azar's skin, his hands growing slick with blood, but more aware of the feeling of something fierce and fluttery, beating at his hands, growing stronger and stronger.

After what seemed like an age, Cyrus pulled back his hands and opened his eyes. He blinked slowly, trying to clear a fuzzy haze from his eyes and eventually succeeded. Looking down, he smiled happily. While her skin was still stained with blood, Azar was looking healthier. Her limbs were still slightly distorted from cracked and broken bones, but Cyrus was fairly sure that she would be back to normal with time.

Abruptly, Cyrus was pulled from his musings by a shriek of anger and outrage. He tried to look and see what had made that noise, but found it increasingly harder to move and that everyone else kept whatever was making those noises from being seen. Hearing a breathy chuckle, Cyrus twitched his head and spotted Sarkan, looking increasingly pale and strained. White eyes locked on his and a flash of amusement was seen. Cyrus smiled in response, swaying from exhaustion. He was suddenly aware of himself, aware of the sudden numbness of his limbs, the slick blood on his hands. He started to keel over, feeling as if he was underwater with water roaring in his ears. Small hands caught him and Cyrus saw Cita's face, pinched with worry as she held him with surprising strength. His eyes were so tired, the blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision, so inviting…

He knew no more.

* * *

**AN: This drabble and the next mark a turning point for Cyrus- He's been learning how to use his powers but he has yet to be confident and comfortable with them. The same could be said of his personality in general since he's shy and has let Sarkan determine what he should be doing. This crisis pushes him into a position where he _has _****to be decisive and appear confident. **

**This drabble also shows the limits Sarkan is under- limits he does his damned best to make sure that Kooza does know about. To Kooza, he is invincible. He was, when Kooza was first created, back when the older pagan religions were not threatened by Christianity. Things changed but he didn't tell anyone. Part of it is fear, part of it pride and part of it is a strong dose of self loathing. **


	14. Growth

Azar woke slowly; her head feeling like someone had stuffed it with wool. She was somewhere comfortable, covered with blankets. As she tried to move, she sucked in a pained breath, letting it out again as an inaudible hiss. Her entire body hurt, with several sharper pains radiating from her left side. She kept her eyes shut, remembering. She had been working on a new stunt, successfully completing the complex twists and flips. She had grabbed the bar of her trapeze, only for one side of the worn straps to give out; sending her tumbling down, down, down...The last she could recall was slamming into the hard ground…

Azar stilled suddenly. She could feel something heavy near her being shifted. Carefully, she cracked open an eye. Cyrus was next to her, carefully cleaning- Azar abandoned all pretext of being asleep, eyes flying open and gasping. "Sarkan!" she managed to whisper, wincing at the roughness of her voice.

Cyrus looked over her, startled. "Azar! You're awake!" he said happily. Then his face fell abruptly as he looked down, at Sarkan's limp form. The Trickster was laid out on his stomach, with his back exposed. His runes looked like they had been freshly branded, an angry red color that oozed clear pus tinged with streaks of blood. Cyrus had been in the process of wiping the wounds clean with warm water when Azar had woken up.

"What. Happened," she ground out, looking back and forth between Sarkan and Cyrus.

Cyrus closed his eyes, his head bowing. "You...you fell. Cita got me and Sarkan. A-Athanasius was there to t-take you." He looked at her, face crumpled with misery. "Sarkan s-shielded you. I…I used my own powers to heal you enough so that Athanasius couldn't take you. I don't remember much afterwards," he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "Sarkan and I collapsed. I woke up a while ago. Ilkin moved you and Sarkan here, for some privacy."

Azar's gaze flickered around the room, taking in the familiar sight of Sarkan's bedroom. "How long have I been out," she asked voice still raspy.

Cyrus shrugged, wiping away more of the pus and blood. "...The others are worried, but they'll be happy to hear you're up."

Azar nodded slowly. "I still hurt," she stated. "Why?"

Cyrus flushed. "I couldn't heal everything," he confessed, wringing out the now-stained rag and getting it wet again. "A lot of your bones are still cracked. I can try and heal them the rest of the way once I've wrapped up Sarkan's runes." Azar hummed noncommittally, watching the not so young boy carefully clean the rest of Sarkan's wounds before applying a thick layer of healing balm. He moved with purpose, hints of grace bleeding through on occasion as he wrapped a light layer of bandages over everything, awkwardly shifting Sarkan to complete each pass. He had truly matured, in the time she'd been unconscious, she realized with a mental jolt.

* * *

**AN: If Kooza had a normal time flow, this would be about two weeks after Azar fell. Cyrus woke up a week earlier and has been helping Ilkin keep everyone else from panicking. **


	15. Awakening

Azar stirred restlessly, breaking out of the doze she found herself spending most of her time in. Cyrus had explained that her body was trying to save energy for healing. She would've brushed the boy off if not for the fact that she was so tired all the time and the newly confident note Cyrus's voice had held. Sarkan slept her beside her, still comatose, but healing. His runes had healed enough for him to have his bandages hidden underneath one of his sleeping shirts. Opening her eyes, Azar blinked, astonished to see who was sitting by her.

Few picked up on the subtle balances Sarkan liked to create. Few realized that Azar had a sister in the unicyclist's partner.

"Aysu," Azar said, confused. "What're you doing here?"

Aysu shrugged, the movement graceful and fluid. "Watching you," she replied simply.

"Where's Cyrus...?" Azar asked, vaguely surprised that the boy wasn't glued to Sarkan's side.

"He's talking with Ilkin. Keeps flitting between here and the library," Aysu explained.

"Oh." Azar lapsed into silence, letting her eyes fall half shut.

Aysu watched her for a moment before reaching out to smooth Azar's rumpled hair. Azar let her, permitting herself to enjoy the rare touch. "Oh Azar," she whispered. "You scared me so _much_."

Azar had barely opened her mouth to reply when they both heard Sarkan suck in a deep shuddering breath. His eyes flew open and flickered about the room before resting on Azar's face as she shifted somewhat awkwardly to face him. "Azar…" Sarkan whispered, his normally smooth voice cracked and raspy. He seemed to be fighting to stay awake. "You- Kooza- Athanasius-" he asked in a strangely breathy voice. He took several deep breaths, rubbing inelegantly at his eyes before trying to sit up.

Aysu half stood and pushed Sarkan back with a gentle hand, not daring to think about the audacity of her action. "Azar's fine, everyone's fine Trickster," she soothed. "Ath-thansius is gone. You can _rest,_ Lokisson." Sarkan frowned but relaxed back onto the mattress.

"Where's Cyrus…" Sarkan murmured, eyes already starting to slip shut again. "He feels more confident," he mumbled in a sigh. Before either sister could ask him about his cryptic remark, he was fast asleep.

Aysu moved back to her chair softly, eyes wide in surprise as she watched her sister stroke gentle fingers over the Trickster's cheek before curling as much as her injuries allowed around the long length of her lover. Aysu flushed, knowing that she was intruding on a private moment, in a very private space. Azar hummed contentedly as she draped a possessive arm over Sarkan's waist and settled her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, reassuringly steady and slow. "He truly cares for you," Aysu finally whispered, shock making her even softer than usual. "He…truly cares for you," she repeated somewhat numbly.

Azar looked at her sister, the memory of a scornful argument flickering in the back of her eyes. "Yes," she replied simply. "Leave Aysu," she sighed, eyes sliding shut. "Cyrus will want to know that Sarkan was awake."

Aysu nodded dumbly, standing as she watched Azar slip back into sleep, muscles relaxing and her breathing deepening. Aysu watched the pair for a long moment, still shocked at how well they complemented each other before leaving to find Cyrus. He, and the rest of Kooza, would be relieved to hear news of Sarkan's recovery.

* * *

**AN: As I say to my friends: Look! A scene where Azar and Sarkan aren't tearing their clothes off!**

**Yeah, I'm aware that you guys haven't seen that more than once... I find it difficult to write scenes where Sarkan and Azar _don't_ get physical in some fashion since that's a large part of their relationship. More importantly, this is the first look into one of the secondary relationships in my Koozaverse: The one between Azar and her sister, Aysu. ****Their personalities are based off of their respective acts which are juxtaposed...Azar and Sarkan have the fiery, very physical relationship, while Aysu and her Unicyclist (who doesn't have a name as of yet...) have something much sweeter and not quite as physical. **

**The two don't act like sisters a lot of the time, mostly due to personality conflicts. Azar thinks Aysu is too sentimental but there is another, larger, bone of contention between the two. Aysu had a bad experience involving Sarkan when she was younger and so is very much aware that Sarkan is a Trickster. She firmly believes/d that Sarkan was just toying with Azar. Azar...really doesn't care. Underneath the sex and aggression there _is _real affection and love but Sarkan and Azar have the type of personalities that don't lend themselves towards verbal affirmations of such. Aysu doesn't understand it at all.  
**


	16. Meanings

Azar watched Sarkan shift in his sleep, snoring softly. His back was still a horrible mess, the normally smooth and pale skin a network of angry red burns and slowly healing skin. Unlike her, the Trickster did not have benefit of having Cyrus accelerating his healing and was paying for it by spending most of his time asleep. Cyrus had confided in her that his one small attempt to heal the runes had backfired spectacularly. Sarkan had slipped, briefly, into another coma. He had woken after a day but it had still been frightening to everyone who had known about it. Cyrus had holed himself up in his room, utterly convinced of his worthlessness until Cita and Ilkin managed to coax him out. It had taken Sarkan's stern order to make sure he would continue working with his powers.

Azar drifted feather light fingers over the runes that slid around Sarkan's neck. Even though these markings were untouched, the individual marks crisp and inky black, Sarkan muttered uneasily in his sleep, head twitching away from her fingers. Azar shifted her fingers up into his hair, stroking the soft brown hair. Sarkan hummed contentedly, arching into the touch before relaxing with a sigh. A few seconds later he cracked an eyelid, a smile pulling at his lips. Azar's lips twitched up but her thoughts remained dark.

Sarkan frowned, his head tilting. "Something's on your mind," he murmured.

"Mm," she agreed. Sarkan waited for her to elaborate patiently, eyes drifting half shut. Azar met his gaze, wondering if she would get the answers she wanted. She sighed. "These markings hurt you," she stated bluntly. "Why?" Sarkan stilled under her hand, eyes narrowing.

"We've had this conversation before," he replied softly- dangerously so. "As I recall, I thought I told you not to ask again."

"Yes. But that was before you were constantly tangling with Lord Death and getting hurt," Azar growled. "Kooza needs you. You, darkling and confident and _whole_." Sarkan pulled away from her, hissing as the movement pulled at his markings. Azar let him, watching him sit up. "You try to leave and I'll get both Ilkin and Cyrus in here to mother you back into bed." Azar's voice was sickly sweet. Sarkan snarled under his breath but stopped moving.

"We appear to be at an impasse," he said, eyes still narrowed.

Azar smiled a wide and innocent smile that fooled no one. "True," she said blithely. "But not for long. Either you can tell me or I can corner Cyrus and _make _him tell me."

He growled several uncomplimentary oaths in Norse, contemplating the issue before him. Azar did not make idle threats and Cyrus was still frightened enough by her that she could get whatever information she wanted out of him by sheer intimidation. A small part of him was admiring how neatly she was manipulating him, while another part was violently rejecting the notion that any of Kooza's inhabitants be aware of the sacrifices he'd made for them. He sighed heavily, let his head fall forward. "Damned if I do and damned if I don't," he murmured. He glanced back at Azar. "'Not your subtlest manipulation of a situation,'" he quoted back to her wryly.

Azar smirked, sliding over to him. "I leave the subtlety to you," she responded. She picked up one of his hands, tracing nonsensical patterns all over, pointedly weaving about the runes present on his wrist.

Sarkan raised an eyebrow and closed his eyes; trying to think of how he could explain to Azar the reasons he had allowed himself to be bound without having to explain some of the more difficult aspects of Cyrus's world. Azar waited with a modicum of patience now that she knew an explanation was forthcoming. "You always choose the most difficult path," he sighed, letting his eyes close.

Azar hummed lightly, waiting for him to begin. Sarkan's voice was dispassionate and as blank as his facial expression. "The markings are bindings. Bindings of my power under certain conditions." Sarkan felt his jaw muscles tighten and his fists clench. "My reasons for letting myself be bound are intricate to say the least. The simplest of these was my responsibility to Kooza. To all of you within Kooza." He heard Azar's breathing hitch but kept talking. "Due to…immaturity and inexorable time constraints, I could only go to one entity." Sarkan raised his lip in an ugly snarl.

Beside him, Azar shuddered. "Athanasius?" she whispered, curling around him.

"Yes," Sarkan sighed. "He…takes great delight in my circumstances. In seeing me bound and helpless in situations where I once held the power to do anything. In being able to punish me if I use my powers when I shouldn't."

"Bastard reaper," Azar muttered under her breath, remembering how the skeletal reaper had taunted Sarkan when he had first invaded Kooza.

Sarkan chuckled in amusement but opened his eyes, glancing down at her. "No questions?" he asked. Azar shook her head, eyes fixed on the runes trailing down Sarkan's spine. She had enough to think about as it was.

* * *

**AN: Proof that while the rest of Kooza won't say anything about the obvious consequences from Sarkan's actions in Limitations, Azar remembers and _will _ask. I apologize if the explanations seems a bit repetitive but it shows Sarkan's growth. He and Azar have been together for a while but he still keeps some somethings hidden. Some of those things- like the fact that he was a god in Cyrus's world and other "complicated" things- will remain hidden. I realize that Sarkan has kept Kooza very...sheltered. He isn't fond of change and it shows. He'll bring in things like books for everyone to read but they'll never know about movies or recorded music.**


	17. Anniversary

Sarkan tilted his head back, absently swirling the spiced wine in the heavy goblet he held. He had spent the entire day in his private rooms, barring anyone from entering. He was carefully slouched in the large chair he had positioned in front of the fire pit. He slowly sipped the remaining wine, intent on going to bed before he drunk himself into a mindless stupor. He stood, reveling in the feel of the loose tunic and trews that he had worn today in place of his usual fitted suit. The only ornamentation he wore was a bronze torque around his neck and the simple leather belt clasped around his hips. He moved into his bedroom, removing the belt and stripping off the tunic as he went.

Sarkan sighed to himself, contemplating his reflection in the mirror hung near a corner in his room. He held the rich golden tunic in one hand and his belt in the other; his trews dyed a dark brown. He smiled slightly, looking down at his bare feet, wriggling his toes in the thick rug under his feet. While he truly enjoyed his various suits, with their sharp patterns and clean lines, tunic and trews were the clothing of younger, simpler times. Shaking his head, he headed for the trunk where he kept his older, Norse, clothing. He folded the tunic neatly, placing it among the lavender and cedar sachets. He had started coiling the thick leather belt when he felt a faint flare of unfamiliar power.

Sarkan straightened, head turning towards Kooza, frowning. Somebody had entered Kooza. Whoever they were had been polite- _Intelligent enough_, he thought- to alert him to their presence. The power was raw and decidedly _not _elemental in nature, like that of...Reaching into the chest, Sarkan pulled out a coat, made out of soft wool and dyed a deep blue. He belted the coat around him as he walked, feet whispering over rug and stone. Leaving his rooms, Sarkan stopped, feeling for the source of the un-stranger's flickering power. He wandered the dimly lit bataclan. He ended up on the King's balcony, leaning against the ornate railing and staring out over his world. He stilled as he felt another hint of power and heard his guest emerge from the shadows.

"Quite the little world you've built for yourself grandson." Sarkan closed his eyes and smiled at the gravelly voice, perfectly matching the harsh and guttural language spoken.

Turning his head, Sarkan looked at his grandsire, dressed simply in layers of tunics and worn trews. Grey eyes regarded him, a glint of mischief still visible beneath black brows and in the smile visible on craggy features, so unlike his own. "You were dead," he replied in the same language, roughened syllables smoothing out under his tongue. "Or at least, as dead a god can be."

Loki tossed his head back, laughing silently, before moving to stand beside Sarkan. "By all rights, you should've joined me," he replied in an even voice. Sarkan was silent, eyes carefully _not _drifting to the runes encircling his wrists, visible from the cuffs of his coat. Loki inhaled deeply before glancing at him. "You stink of one of Hel's whelps," he not quite growled.

"I had…responsibilities," Sarkan murmured. Loki looked at him sharply, eyes catching on the bindings on Sarkan's wrists. Loki sucked in a breath, spine straightening as he turned to face Sarkan. Sarkan turned with him, face impassive. The old god reached out his hands, slowly pushing Sarkan's coat off his shoulders. The thick wool fell with a soft thud, caught by Sarkan's belt, draping over itself. Loki's eyes widened for a moment before his expression grew shuttered. He brushed his hands over the bindings with hands rough and cold, eyes narrowing as the Arabic script shifted to the Norse runes he knew. Sarkan shivered as calluses caught on the sensitive skin, deriving no pleasure from the sensation.

"You let yourself be bound_,_" Loki whispered. "Thor's bloody hammer, you let yourself be _bound._"

"Nine centuries as of tonight," he replied tonelessly, mouth dry. In an uncharacteristically unsubtle fashion, Sarkan summoned a goblet of heated spiced mead, holding it out to Loki with a bow in a gesture centuries old. Loki accepted the goblet with a bow of his own. Sarkan summoned another goblet for himself, taking a sip. Loki copied the action, humming appreciatively. Loki opened his mouth only to stop as the pair felt a flare of wind laced power.

Sarkan winced and muttered several curses under his breath. Loki's eyes narrowed, gaze flickering to the binding that twisted about Sarkan's neck. For a god who had been nearly nonexistent for almost a millennium, Loki's wits hadn't dulled any.

Sarkan smiled thinly, pride bubbling up in the back of his mind. "Mm. He'll be something to be reckoned with eventually," he commented softly, turning to look out over Kooza as he heard Cyrus approach the balcony. Loki chuckled under his breath. "Can I help you Cyrus," Sarkan called out in a language the boy would understand.

"Sarkan? What are you…" Cyrus's voice trailed off as he spotted Loki. The Norse god eyed the gangly boy with his oversized sleeping clothes before raising his goblet in a mocking salute. Sarkan said nothing, still looking out over Kooza, goblet dangling from perilously loose finger tips, arms draped over the railing.

"I'm off then," Loki said, draining the rest of his drink, savoring the taste before swallowing. "I've a mind to see what's the world has become if I am back," he continued contemplatively. Sarkan inclined his head, smiling as he felt his grandsire's now-familiar power surge as the god disappeared from Kooza's domains.

Sarkan allowed himself a long sigh before standing up straight and replacing his coat to its proper position, hiding his runes once more. He turned to Cyrus who looked confused. "Happy anniversary," Sarkan murmured to himself in Norse before moving back towards the bataclan, shepherding Cyrus before him without a word.

Tomorrow would come and he'd have his part to play in the complex game of his own weaving.

* * *

**AN: This is the one day of the year that Sarkan allows himself to...grieve/angst/sulk about his bindings. Loki showed up by himself and features a key part in the next drabble. The in-world circumstances that brought Loki back to life also play into the main plot of my original novel that is based off these drabbles. Only without anything that could be identified as Cirque so as to avoid copyright infringement. This also shows that while Cyrus may get a lot of answers from Sarkan, he won't get all of them. **

**Hel was the Norse god of the underworld of the same name. No, Athanasius is not a descendant of Hel, Loki was merely referring to the fact that Athanasius is a Reaper and connected to the same general kind of...concept-thingy? Both gods deal with death, both aren't very nice. I'm sorry that's not more coherent, but it's coming up on 2 AM for me.  
**


	18. Malice

Sarkan stroked idle fingers over Azar's skin, half closed eyes watching the flames of the common room's fire pit flicker. Warm colors streaked across the walls, complemented by the rugs strewn over the floor. The fire pit dominated the center of room, shadows dancing over the various alcoves that few actually intimate pairings liked to occupy. The rest of the space was taken up by furniture, small groupings of chairs and couches made of sturdy wood and mottled fabrics. A few bookcases were against the walls, their contents well loved. He and Azar had settled on one of the couches, facing the fire. Azar stirred from the half doze she had drifted into, stretching against him. "Where'd everyone go?" she asked sleepily.

"To bed," he murmured. He bent his head down and ran curved lips over the skin of her neck. Azar chuckled, reaching back to brush her hand over Sarkan's jaw blindly, knocking off his hat to thread her fingers through the short strands, smiling at the silky smoothness. "We could do the same," he suggested slyly.

"Yes, but we wouldn't be _sleeping_ now, would we?" she replied dryly. Sarkan laughed as she squirmed around to face him, eyebrows already raised in mock disapproval even as she held herself close, hands clasped around his arms.

"We would sleep," he murmured. "Eventually," he breathed, dipping down to nibble at her collarbone, smirking as her breathing hitched sharply and her grip tightened.

"Sarkan-" she started but stopped when they heard hurried footsteps. Sarkan pulled away reluctantly as the doors to the common room were shoved open blindly. He twisted around to see Cyrus stumble towards him, looking terrified and pale, clutching a book in one hand. Sarkan stood, feeling a vague sense of alarm at Cyrus's expression. From beside him, Azar hissed in displeasure but kept silent as she rose to stand behind Sarkan.

"Tell me this isn't true!" Cyrus half begged. "T-tell me you didn't- T-that you c-couldn't-" He stopped a few feet away, trying not to sob as he held out the book he'd been holding. Sarkan reached out a long arm and looked at the book for a moment, going rigid as he recognized the cover- as well as the faint remnants of his grandsire's power. Snarling silently inside, Sarkan looked at Cyrus for a moment before bowing his head.

Cyrus whimpered, collapsing to his knees. Azar looked at Sarkan sharply, vaguely unsurprised to see the Trickster's impassive mask firmly in place. On the floor, Cyrus sobbed, stammering out denials. "You- You're not- You're not _like _that- y-you're _Sarkan_- you'r-"

"-A Trickster, descended from _the _Trickster." Sarkan interrupted, his voice cold. He stooped down next to Cyrus, teeth bared in a sharp smile. "I was not always bound Cyrus. _Believe_ me when I say that I have become a _shadow_ of my younger self," he purred, tracing gentle fingers down Cyrus's face before gripping Cyrus's jaw roughly, eyes glittering with something unfathomable but decidedly lethal. Cyrus froze, fear trailing icy tendrils down his spine at Sarkan's expression. "There was a time when my games were _deadly. _Athanasius chose his bindings well." Cyrus tried to pull away, stopped by Sarkan's grip on his chin. Sarkan held his gaze for a moment longer before closing his eyes and pulling away. He inhaled, standing up. "Believe me when I also say that, nine centuries of being bound and of…slow maturation, have changed me."

Cyrus said nothing, scrabbling back a few clumsy crab steps, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Sarkan stepped back deliberately, saying nothing as the younger boy fled the room. Azar watched silently as Sarkan looked down at the book Cyrus had found- with some help. Azar stepped up, wrapping her arms around Sarkan's waist, resting her head along his spine. She could feel his muscles, tense underneath his suit. "Do you need anything?" she asked softly.

Sarkan said nothing, twisting around in Azar's arms. "Several things," he murmured. "But for now…" He leaned down to place a soft kiss just under the corner of her jaw. "I have a claim I apparently need to stake," he snarled under his breath. "Cyrus is _mine. _Not even a god will toy with him while he remains so."

* * *

**AN: Mmm, this was one of my favorites to write. Sarkan is many things and it's easy to forget that he's not human, that's he's not particularly inclined to be nice unless it suits him or it serves a purpose. Especially when he's interacting with Cyrus or Azar. **

**Edit: Ack, I forgot to mention Loki-details. As one of the original Tricksters, he's inclined to be more...simple in the actual pranks he plays. Sophistication came from experience that he gained later. But one of the crucial differences between Sarkan and his grandfather (aside from their brand/feel of magic and physical appearance) is the fact that Sarkan has/developed some morals or taboos. There are somethings he absolutely refuses to do. Loki...not so much. It's not really relevant to this particular drabble- Loki just wanted to try and screw with Sarkan and/or Cyrus, only to have it backfire and showcase Sarkan's Papa Wolf tendencies- but it could crop up later on.  
**


	19. Gifts

Cyrus sat, his eyes wide and focused as he cradled a small tornado of fire in his hands, almost an exact replica of the one Sarkan had shown him in his first formal lesson. The only difference between the two was the colors of the flames. Whereas Sarkan's flames had been made up of deep orange-reds and white-yellows, Cyrus held flames of every shade of blue, from dark navy to arctic turquoise.

Across from Cyrus, Sarkan watched his protégé with something bordering affection in his gaze, head propped on his hand, golden fingers glinting in the low light. After a moment, Cyrus easily quenched the flames he had made with a soft sigh. He looked up with a shy smile, startled by Sarkan's expression. Sarkan fixed him with a probing stare, one that made Cyrus want to shrink back. He hadn't been subject to such a look since Azar had accosted him. Still, he met Sarkan's stare steadily, chin tilting upwards. Sarkan finally smiled before speaking. "You're ready," he said, something almost like regret flickering in his eyes.

Cyrus started to smile again but stopped, ice creeping up towards his heart. "Ready for what?" he asked slowly, the brief flare of happiness he'd initially felt dying away.

Sarkan flicked the fingers of his free hand outwards. "The world," he said simply. "Your time within Kooza has reached its end."

Cyrus's face crumpled as he felt something stab into his heart. "No," he gasped, feeling tears already well up. "It can't- I don't want- I- You- _No_..." he moaned.

"Yes." Sarkan's voice was cool and dispassionate. "Stand up Cyrus," he ordered gently. Cyrus did so, shaking with repressed sobs. "Take my hand." Cyrus reluctantly did so, grasping onto Sarkan's hand with the intention of never letting go. Sarkan drew him forward, pulling him into a simple hug. Cyrus stilled at the unexpected comfort he felt from feeling Sarkan's arms around him before latching his own arms around Sarkan's ribs in a fierce grip. Cyrus buried his face in the fine suit, blocking out the world as he started to cry in earnest, shaking like a leaf. Sarkan only tightened his grip, not bothering to try and soothe the young boy, letting him sob and shake and mumble weak arguments against the inevitable ending. He privately savored the contact, the sheer amount of _trust_ Cyrus gave to him. Sarkan hummed, low notes that vibrated deep in his chest, transmitting a wordless comfort to Cyrus.

Eventually Cyrus's sobs tapered off and he stood there, still trembling. His grip on Sarkan slackened, arms falling to rest comfortably around the demigod's waist. Sarkan's humming slowly faded away and he looked down at Cyrus's bowed head. "I don't want to leave," Cyrus choked out; face still buried in Sarkan's chest.

Sarkan nodded softly, fingers starting to trail over tense and knotted muscles that released after a moment. "Kooza will always be open to you as a sanctuary if you ever truly need it," he said softly. "But your place is in _your_ realm for now. Come," he continued. "I know some of the others have gifts for your return."

**

* * *

AN: Ahh...And this marks the end of Metamorphosis. Within this Koozaverse Cyrus is much more affected by Sarkan and his leaving Kooza had...effects. Nothing major but there none the less. I will probably post the drabbles of how Sarkan's and Azar's relationship developed. **


End file.
